Neither to Timir’s nor Dwara’s surprise, the crowd wasn’t a quiet one. They knew what they were here for. They were here to watch someone die.

The sun was yet to set when they stepped into the ceremonial space created in the compound. The ground had been swept and a makeshift stage erected. The fact that it had taken them only a few hours to do so was perhaps because they were accustomed to the whole process. Timir wondered how many innocent travellers had become Yamuk’s unwitting entertainment in Kastha’s reign.

Dwara waited, alongside Timir, only too aware of scornful stares from many in the crowd. “I hope you realise that if you don’t survive whatever Lord Kastha throws at you, I will no longer be welcome anywhere in Yamuk.”

“You can always tell them I forced you to accompany me,” Timir replied. “If that doesn’t work, take all the gold off my corpse and go east. Most of it is under Aramban control now. But in Sueila you will find a woman by the name of Ahala selling her wares by the port. She will help you if you tell her I sent you, I think.”

“You think?”

“It’s all I have to offer. All I know of is east of Yamuk.”

“There are marshlands to the west, and sheer cliffs rising into the clouds beyond that. I will not survive on berries and roasted lizard tails.”

“What’s past the cliffs?”

“I have never been outside Yamuk. But everyone has heard of the haunted marshes. They say fearsome evil spirits wander there.”

“Tall tales.”

“You don’t believe in ghosts?”

“Oh I do, but tales people tell about ghosts have seldom anything to do with them. Every village and town has such tales and they are all only ever about men.”

“Have you seen real ghosts?”

“I have. Perhaps you will too, someday.”

Dwara allowed herself a smile. Yamuk was all she had ever known, but if she had to leave, travelling east into Aramban territory seemed unwise. Perhaps she could go south, towards the coast. At any rate, she would fare better in a city, Aramban-occupied or not.

“What are they like? Ghosts?”

“Sad, mostly, and full of regrets. If there are fearsome spirits out there, I have never met one. They’re as like to weep than charge when they see you.”

Dwara would have asked him about why they wept, but loud cheering disrupted her thoughts just then and Kastha stepped onto the stage, somewhat more resplendent in oversized black robes than he had been in his chamber. Her eyes swept the crowd once and returned to find that Timir too was on his feet, clapping and hooting like the rest of them.

“My children,” Kastha’s voice boomed over the compound, once again enhanced by magical means, after he had waved the applause down. “I have stood between Yamuk and the oblivion that awaits it for twelve long years. I have protected your homes and families from outsiders and monsters who would take what is yours. In these very grounds, you have watched enemies of Yamuk hanged for their crimes against you.”

The crowd cheered loudly. To the confusion of several in the front row, Timir cheered the loudest. Dwara remained silent throughout, dread colouring her every breath.

“Today, we have another stranger among us,” Kastha continued, ignoring Timir who rose once again to smile and wave to the crowd. “He is an Aramban. He does not deny it. He has killed one of my sons, our very own Captain Trivikram. He begs for my mercy now -” Timir laughed loudly at this. “- and is willing to trade his sword in exchange for his life. I ask you, my children. Does this spy deserve Yamuk’s mercy? Should he be allowed to go free despite what he has done? Or will he join his brethren - all our other enemies, in the forty-fourth hell tonight?”

The crowd cheered for Kastha as Dwara’s heart sank. There were various versions of cries like “hang him” and “death to Aramba” within the cheers, along with a lot of symbolic stone-throwing that never reached the stage. Not everyone was cheering though, and Dwara’s eyes spied Kastha’s wife some distance away, sitting under a makeshift tabernacle with her attendants.

“You have put me at the town’s mercy Lord Kastha,” Timir said when the crowd started to fall silent. “Will you allow me to win their favour with my own words?”

When Kastha, sure of his control, gestured his permission, Timir picked up his sword and made his way to where the people of Yamuk were crowding against the stockades.

“People of Yamuk,” he said. “You are not fools. You respect strength, and that is why you respect Lord Kastha. He has the power to hurt those who seek to hurt you. But even more importantly, he has the power to hurt you. Many of you have been hurt by him. I am sure most of you had no love for Captain Trivikram. You bore that burden because he too was strong and could hurt you. Now, I am certain many of you are happy that he is dead, even if you will not say it.

“Lord Kastha has presented you with a grand opportunity this evening. You may think it involves deciding my fate, but in truth, it is about deciding yours!

“I will make that decision easier for you. I have no intention of handing my sword to Lord Kastha. I do not seek his mercy. I also refuse to hang so he may add my life to the long list of innocents he has already killed and tell you he is doing it for your good, because he isn’t.

“So if you respect strength, respect mine. I put an end to Trivikram. I can put an end to Kastha’s rule too. If you want me to hang, scream your insults and wish death upon me. But if you want an end to Kastha’s tyranny, say nothing and let your silence tell this small man what you think of him.”

What followed Timir’s words was not silence. But it clearly wasn’t as full-throated a condemnation as before either. Dwara, who had given up on Yamuk a long time ago, watched the town bend, just a little, to Timir’s will. She looked to Kastha and found him visibly confused. In a few moments, as some of the voices in the back started challenging Timir’s words, the crowd began to get vicious again. But the damage had been done. For the first time in twelve years, Kastha had been forced to face the fact that Yamuk could imagine existing without him.

To be continued…

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Dwara considered Timir’s words for a while before asking, “And this god... Koru. He speaks to you?”

“Not always,” Timir replied. “And even when he does, he does not tell me much. He is weakened and without a body of his own. That is why he needs a vessel to be able to travel west.”

“What’s in the west?”

“I am not sure,” Timir said. “Though he is too weak to keep all of his wisdom from leaking into my mind, that is a secret he protects with all his might.”

“This is why you can sense the magic in things? Because of Koru’s wisdom?”

“No. It’s much simpler than that,” Timir smiled. “Daitya magic does not mix with the magic of the gods. At their strongest, they can even react violently to each other. Because Koru lives in me, so does his magic, and so daitya magic turns my stomach. That is how I sense it.”

“But...” Dwara said, remembering what Timir had said earlier. “But you said there is daitya magic in everything.”

“True.”

“Are you saying everything turns your stomach?” Dwara said in horror. “You find everything unpleasant?”

Timir looked away towards the light filtering in through the dark curtain. “Some things are more trouble than others, but yes. Everything I touch hurts. The water I drink burns my throat, the air is sand on my skin, most things I eat upset my insides.”

Dwara stared at Timir. How was it possible for one such as him to exist? Not just exist, but to smile and be good. “Sounds like a curse.”

“It used to feel like one too. Now I barely notice it,” Timir said and continued with a smile. “Most things don’t really have much magic in them. So it’s not really that bad.”

Dwara nodded, even though she could tell he had sensed her shock and was trying to keep her from worrying. “Is that why you didn’t...” Dwara hesitated. “Back at the inn. You didn’t... want me.”

A scream split the quiet afternoon wide open. Timir pushed the curtain aside and found one of Kastha’s lizards had frightened a child. The compound was beginning to fill up as Yamuk folk crowded by the stockades, spooking horse and lizard alike. Kastha’s men were about as well, yelling commands and throwing their weight around.

“Do you know what is happening?” Timir asked, without turning away from the sight.

“Lord Kastha has public hangings sometimes for captured Aramban spies. That is the only time townsfolk are allowed in here. To watch.”

“What fun!” Timir said before pretending to ponder a moment and saying, “Wait! He’s not going to hang me, is he? After that amicable deal of ours!”

“You should not underestimate Lord Kastha,” Dwara said. “He commands strange and powerful magics. Surely you saw the shadow he cast upon you.”

“Just as I am sure you saw the ease with which that was taken care of.”

Dwara sighed and looked as if she was going to say more, but just ended up repeating herself, “You should not underestimate him.”

“Do you think him a good man, Dwara?” Timir asked and took her by surprise.

“He is all Yamuk has - the only one who can protect us.”

“Protect you from what?”

“Arambans, Timir, and all manner of strange creatures from beyond who will take this town and enslave its people and...” Dwara trailed off and the silence that followed was broken only by the occasional yell from outside.

Timir parted the curtain a little and looked. Then he lay back down and stared at the roof as he spoke, “I will not pretend this world is a safe place, Dwara. I have seen the horrors that plague it, fought some of them, even slayed a few monsters. Trust me when I tell you that Kastha isn’t up to the task of protecting Yamuk against any of them.”

“We’re still here, Timir. Is that not a testament to Lord Kastha’s strength and leadership?”

“It is testament to the fact that Yamuk is of little use to anyone who might come this way. Arambans are too busy taking over prosperous coastal cities and controlling the island nations in the south. Your blessed Yamuk holds nothing that might interest them.”

“Then why do we find Aramban spies in our midst?”

Timir turned to face Dwara. “Do you?”

“There are hangings.”

“How do you know they’re Aramban spies? Kastha hasn’t even been able to tell that I am not Aramban. I doubt he has ever even met or spoken to one. He would have been able to tell from the way I speak otherwise.”

“It can’t all be a lie.”

“Why not?”

Dwara turned away from Timir then, and he could tell he was killing something in her - the comfort that things were as good as they could possibly be, and that whatever else Kastha might be, he was not the cause of all she had gone through.

“You killed Trivikram for me,” Dwara said without turning towards him. “I thank you for that. But if you are so convinced that Lord Kastha is as guilty as him, why did you not end him then and there?”

“Trivikram was a brute, loved by none. His power lay in his strength and cruelty. Kastha’s truth needs to be seen by those that admire him. Unless he meets his end with all of Yamuk watching, he will not truly die.”

“And what happens then? What becomes of Yamuk?”

“There are good people here. Any of them will do a better job than a man whose greed has sucked this town dry.”

“Where?” Dwara turned to Timir, tears in her eyes. “Where are the good people? Those who will help a child trying to keep her mother from going mad. Those who will walk with her when she tries to get heard. Those who will not seek to possess and use her when she is at her weakest. Where are those people?”

Timir sat up, then stood up, and stared calmly at Dwara. “I am looking at one of them.”

Turning away, Dwara laughed something bitter. “I am not good, Timir.”

“If that is true, friend, you have done a great job of fooling me. I could have sworn you stood up to defend me when three armed men interrupted my lunch earlier today.”

Dwara laughed, despite herself. “You hardly needed my help.”

“You did not know that then. All you knew was that I was a hungry stranger being accosted by Kastha’s goons. Something I wager you have seen many times before in Yamuk.”

If Dwara had an answer to these accusations of kindness, she could not give it to Timir, because just then, drums and trumpets began to sound out in Kastha’s compound. The evening’s revelries were about to be announced.

To be continued…

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Kastha’s eyes narrowed. “Do tell, Aramban. How did I help you end Trivikram?”

“You are a man with many fears, Lord Kastha. The smell of Prajapati told me as much,” Timir said, picking his greatsword up from the floor. “Perhaps you are right to be afraid, perhaps you are in danger. Perhaps these dangers are so great that you can’t afford to grant your men a wink of sleep. I am sure the late Captain Trivikram never complained about the dark circles under his eyes.”

“What of it?” Kastha sat back down on his throne. “I am the lord of Yamuk, its defender. I am all that stands between its freedom and Aramban ambitions. I need my men to be on their toes at all times. Why must this mean I caused Trivikram’s death?”

“It doesn’t. Not by itself,” Timir said. “But when I saw Trivikram by the gate to your keep, he was a good deal stronger. I felt his strength the way one feels warmth from a fire. There was magic in him, I think. Magic that I found missing when I fought him here, before you.”

Dwara turned to look to Kastha when Timir stopped speaking, but the small man on the throne said nothing.

“My guess -” Timir said. “- is that you fear your own men as much as you fear nameless Arambans. That is why you have them at half their strength when they are about you. Perhaps there is something in the air in here, but I doubt it. I myself feel as strong as ever. I am sure Dwara feels the same.”

“The warmth you felt from Trivikram came from a daitya talisman I granted him. It made him the equal of ten men when he was out fulfilling my commands. Inside the keep, its effects were removed by the Purple Prajapati. One of the flower’s many properties is that it interferes with certain daitya magics.”

“How clever!” Timir exclaimed. “I am sure Trivikram had nothng but gratitude on his mind when he breathed his last.”

“If you let me have your sword, I will grant that gift to you too Aramban,” Kastha leaned forward. “You will roam the world a conqueror, feared by all who find you. No one will raise their eyes to meet yours, no one will challenge your authority.”

“Enh,” Timir made a face. “How dismal! If I accept this gift of yours, no one will ever wish to be my friend.”

“You will say no to the strength of ten men? You value that hideous sword that much?”

In the moment of silence that followed Kastha’s offer, Dwara saw Timir’s mask slip. The mischief left him, and something else took its place - the shadow of something dire. It was not rage, but a sadder thing. A memory perhaps.

“I have no need of being feared Lord Kastha,” Timir said icily. “For I know what it is like to be loved.”

Timir knew Kastha would not understand this. Men like him never did. It was why men like him existed in the first place. In time, it was Dwara’s voice that broke the silence. “Why do you wish to have his sword my lord, if it is so hideous to you?”

“I see the magic in it, daughter,” Kastha replied. “I see it for what it can be in the hands of one such as I. The Aramban knows nothing of it. A thing of such power is wasted on him. Tell me Timir, can you even read the writing on your greatsword?”

“I’m not much of a reader, Lord Kastha,” Timir said cheerfully, his mask back up. “An old jadukar in Aramba told me these were daitya words. I always imagined they spell out the word sword?”

Kastha laughed as he pointed at Timir. “See daughter? He knows nothing of the treasure he carries.”

Timir lifted the sword up with both hands and squinted at the red letters on it. Then he took a few steps towards Kastha’s throne and kneeled, as if about to make an offering. “You may be right Lord Kastha. Perhaps you are more deserving of this gift from my mother than I am. She used to tell me that one day, I would meet a wise man who would be my better in every respect. It seems that day has arrived.”

“You will give it to me then?” Kastha stood up, betraying a little too much enthusiasm.

“I can’t just hand it to you of course,” Timir said. “But you might be able to convince me to part with it.”

Kastha flexed his fingers impatiently. “What do you want?”

“Only what I have wanted since I set foot in this town - a soft bed in a quiet room. When I have had my sleep, I will gift you my Ugr in the presence of all Yamuk, and be gone before the sun sets.”

Kastha’s face was unreadable, but even though he had soured a little, he tried to keep his impatience from showing. Soon, his wife - the one Timir and Dwara had seen by the gate - appeared behind them, summoned through means known only to Kastha. She was silent at first, despite the sight of Trivikram’s corpse, but soon began to sob and weep uncontrollably.

“Are you thinking what I am thinking?” Dwara elbowed Timir and whispered.

“No Dwara,” Timir said. “I most certainly am not.”

Not much later, the lady of the house escorted them silently to a room on the other end of the floor. It wasn’t daitya-made and had a thick curtained window that helped keep the heat of the afternoon sun from turning it into a kiln. The bed was soft and Timir fell into it almost immediately while Dwara marvelled at all that the room contained. She poked a wooden mask that hung on the wall and it clattered to the ground. When she turned to the bed with teeth clenched, she found Timir staring at her with eyes wide open.

“I am sorry.”

Timir sighed. “Don’t be. I can’t sleep, must have inhaled too much Prajapati.”

“What do you think this is?” Dwara held up the wooden mask.

“I don’t know,” Timir said. “But it is old. As old as this keep almost. Another daitya toy perhaps?”

“How can you tell?” Dwara took another look at the mask, wondering if it would fit her face.

“Long story,” Timir said tiredly.

She placed the mask on her face, felt its rough insides on her skin, and returned it to its place on the wall. “That could have been dangerous.”

“The why did you do it?” Timir asked.

“I don’t know. Why didn’t you stop me?”

“I sensed no magic coming from it. If it ever contained magic, it has been gone for a long time now. Maybe that is why it is hanging lonely on a wall here, instead of in Lord Kastha’s stash.”

“How can you tell?”

“As I said, long story.”

“You have time.”

With great reluctance, Timir sat up and faced Dwara, who sat down on the bed next to him.

“There is magic in everything Dwara, and it is daitya magic. When they perished at the end of their war with the gods, it seeped out of their blood and bones and became one with the air, the water, and the soil. It came to live in all beasts and trees and people. Even today, though ages have passed and it is all but gone, traces of it remain in all things.”

“And why are you able to sense it when I cannot?”

“You do not sense it because it is the same as you. The magic in that mask would have been the same as what’s in your blood and bones.”

“And you are different?”

“I am. There is a god inside me. His name is Koru.”

To be continued…

Westward Stranger will continue in the next issue of Aagaami. If you would like to be notified when the new chapter drops, please subscribe.

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Trivikram bowed before the throne and took his place next to it. Lord Kastha made no acknowledgment of his presence. Instead, he spoke to his visitors in a voice much unlike the one Timir and Dwara had heard booming by the gate. It was a cold rasp that somehow still carried across the vastness of the chamber.

“Your name, Aramban?”

Instead of answering, Timir started walking towards the throne, taking his time and admiring the chamber’s decorated walls as he did so. Trivikram stirred at Timir’s insolence, but Kastha calmed him with a gesture.

“My name is Timir, Lord Kastha,” he said at last, face to face with him.

“And what brings you to Yamuk all the way from Aramba?”

“We Arambans like to travel, as you very well know.”

“I know it only too well. There was a party of your people here not long ago, led by a jadukar by the name of Heerak. They wished to make Yamuk theirs.”

“I take it they did not succeed.”

“I still sit this throne, do I not?”

“You do indeed, but you should not.”

Trivikram gasped, and lifted his axe to grasp it with both hands. Timir chuckled. “Your dog growls for no reason Lord Kastha. I only meant that this is not a throne. It cannot be.”

“How do you mean?”

“You sit surrounded by daitya craft. This room once housed giants. The weapons that decorate your walls are too heavy for any mortal. Yet, your throne is small enough to seat a man, small enough even to seat a small man such as yourself.”

“Why must that mean that I cannot sit this throne?” A note of agitation coloured Kastha’s question.

“Because it is a toy. The daityas perhaps made it for a pet, or it was a piece meant to represent a throne in a game or a table map. In many eastern towns, I heard of men and women who used to put on plays for the amusement of their daitya masters. Perhaps it was a part of one of those. I’ll wager they used it to mark the throne of heaven itself, given the flourishes on it.”

Kastha was silent for a while. “Do you fancy yourself a historian, Timir the Aramban?”

“Far from it Lord Kastha. I am sure no one will believe me when I go tell them the Lord of Yamuk has a toy for a throne.”

“The daitya were a great people. Collecting proof of their craft and surrounding myself with it has been the greatest joy of my life.”

“Second greatest, surely.”

Kastha raised a brow. Timir continued, “The greatest joy of your life has surely been Yamuk itself. Its people adore you. They don’t even blame you for allowing your dogs to roam free among them, terrorising and killing as they see fit. Even this woman here, who has lost her brothers to the dog that stands beside you, scarcely spoke a word against you. How can you not love your people as they love you?”

“They value the safety I provide them,” Kastha said, rising from his throne. It did nothing to make him look taller. “They know that without me, Yamuk will be overrun with you Arambans.”

“You certainly do a great job convincing them of it,” Timir said. “But I doubt you have ever fought an Aramban. You would not last a minute against their jadukars.”

“Your insolence will cost you Timir,” Kastha took a step towards Timir as his hand moved to touch a gem hanging around his neck. A monstrous shadow coughed and gasped as it formed in the space between Timir and Kastha. It appeared short at first because of its hunched back, but as it began to straighten, it grew taller and its form acquired curved horns and wide claws. Then its eyes opened and it saw Timir.

Dwara screamed something - a warning to Timir perhaps, or a plea to Kastha.

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The shadow advanced, gingerly at first, and then flew the rest of the way. Timir lifted his sword to block the swing of its massive claw, then slashed through it and watched the shadow disintegrate into floating tatters. The clap of Dwara’s feet on the stone floor made him turn. She was done standing apart from him.

“Lord Kastha,” Dwara pleaded. “This is a good man. He is only looking to find some rest. Forgive him for...”

“Your sword,” Kastha said, astonishment colouring his raspy voice. “It is a curious thing. No metal can kill a shadow born of daitya gems.”

“A gift from my mother. She made it with her own hands using clay from her kitchen garden.”

“I will have it!” Kastha said, his eyes wild with greed, his hand directing Trivikram to advance. Trivikram hefted his axe and moved to meet Timir. Dwara, her hand on Timir’s arm, gasped.

“One moment Lord Kastha,” Timir held up his hand, giving Trivikram pause. “I wish to confer with the lady.”

“You will be wise to oblige me Aramban,” Kastha said, his eyes transfixed by the obsidian sword.

“Of course Lord Kastha. That is precisely what I wish to discuss with the lady,” Timir said and turned to Dwara to whisper, “How much suffering do you wish me to put Trivikram through?”

Dwara’s voice shook as she spoke. “I don’t care. Just keep your promise.”

When she moved away, Timir dropped his stone greatsword to the floor and spoke to Trivikram. “Come then dog, and receive a reward you do not deserve.”

Trivikram charged, looking to make things quick with a downward swing of his axe, but Timir managed to grab it by the grip and pull it away from him. He then flung it away, into a dark corner of the chamber where it clanged and clattered before falling silent. Trivikram huffed and charged back, his long arms reaching for Timir’s throat, but got rammed in the face with Timir’s head instead and took several steps back, attending to a broken nose and a bleeding eye.

Trivikram said something then, and Timir realised he was slurring his words. This was not on account of the pain he was in. It was something else.

When he came at Timir next, it wasn’t much of a fight. Timir evaded his feeble fist, grabbed him by the neck and threw him to the floor. Then he he lifted a leg and stomped on Trivikram’s head one last time. When Trivikram stopped moving, Kastha mumbled a curse from his throne, but it wasn’t anything more than frustrated swearing and Timir paid it no mind.

Instead, he walked over to Dwara and asked her the names of her brothers.

“They were called Hetu and Karna. Beautiful, beautiful boys! They were fishermen. When Trivikram’s men started keeping more than Lord Kastha’s share, they brought together other fishermen and...”

“Keep going,” Timir said as he embraced her.

“Trivikram and his men took them away. I never saw them again. My mother tried to seek an audience with Lord Kastha but the men didn’t allow her to reach him. She held out hope though, until... their bodies turned up, naked and tortured and starved to death. Grief killed her a few years later. If she had only been able to... Lord Kastha might have...”

Timir led her to where Trivikram’s broken corpse lay and chanted words she had never heard before. There was a music to it, and he sang the words better than she would have expected. Even Kastha fell silent, confused by the spectacle of an Aramban singing to a dead enemy. When his song stopped echoing in the daityamade chamber, Dwara asked him what its meaning was.

“My people believe in eternal vengeance. With these words, I pass on my strength to your brothers, wherever they may be in the afterworlds, and inform them that this man has been sent their way. I told them that if they wish to strip him naked and torture him for all time, they can.”

Dwara lifted her face to Timir’s then, standing on her toes. He lowered his head after a moment and allowed her to kiss his face.

“They won’t though,” she said. “They wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“Trivikram was no fly. But if they wish to treat him as one, they can do that as well.”

Dwara wiped her tears and turned once more to Kastha. “I beg forgiveness for my impudence Lord Kastha, but this man is not your enemy. He had promised to kill... to avenge the deaths of my brothers at the hands of your man Trivikram... who was a monster. Keeping his promise is all he has done. He speaks boldly and does not know his place, but you must let him pass.”

“You should have thought of that before, daughter. You brought an Aramban here to kill my men and now you expect clemency?”

“Come now Lord Kastha,” Timir laughed. “You know as well as I that I could not have killed your man without your help.”

To be continued…

Westward Stranger will continue in the next issue of Aagaami. If you would like to be notified when the new chapter drops, please subscribe.

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Kastha’s place hadn’t needed building. He had made a home for himself inside one of the few ruins in Yamuk that were still more or less whole. Timir could tell it had been something akin to a granery back when Daityas still walked the world, but the town’s lord had accorded it the status of a fortress by lining its ledges with armed guards and the space around it with stables full of lizards and horses. Together with the unnecessarily tall gates and the lookout towers, it was an imposing sight quite becoming someone who wished to be seen as the rightful ruler of a town in the middle of nowhere.

The men who had been sent to bring Timir to this place had intended to make a spectacle out of his arrest. However, things hadn’t gone their way and now Timir and Dwara were seated atop the white lizard Kastha’s men had ridden in on, chatting away cheerfully and waving to the people of Yamuk as the tall keep came into view. The large lizard was saddled for five riders, but the three remaining arresting officers had chosen to walk instead, adding to the general impression that Timir and Dwara were their master’s honoured guests.

When the lizard stopped in the middle of Kastha’s compound, Timir grabbed his sword and jumped off immediately. He then wordlessly directed the men following them to help Dwara down and watched them do it with the utmost care and respect.

“Why did you ask me to come with you?” Dwara whispered at him. “I have never been here before. I know nothing.”

“You know more than I do,” Timir replied. “And for some reason, the men who came for us don’t wish to speak to me. I must have done something to offend them.”

When Dwara chuckled, Timir said, “It hurts when you laugh at my lack of social graces Dwara. You shouldn’t be so cruel.”

This time, Dwara laughed loud enough to turn heads. One of the heads she turned belonged to a woman in red and black standing by the keep’s gate. She turned and stared at them until one of the men ran up to her and spoke while gesticulating wildly and pointing towards Timir.

“The lady over there seems like she could help us. Do you know her?”

“Only that she is too well-dressed to be anything other than one of Lord Kastha’s wives.”

“How sweet! Let’s go meet the lady of the house. Perhaps she can help us.”

“Help you with what exactly?”

“Same as before. A comfortable bed in a quiet room. You interrupted my sleep, remember?”

“You… You are mad! You’re going to ask Lord Kastha’s wife for a room to…” Dwara managed to blurt out before Timir dragged her away.

“If I could have the lady’s attention,” Timir bellowed, causing the men around her to turn and block his way. “I have travelled for long and am looking for a soft bed to sleep in. The townsfolk have told me of Lord Kastha’s generosity. Am I a fool for believing them?”

The lady quietly turned and disappeared into the keep. One of the guards pointed a spear at Timir, but hesitated when Timir grinned in response. Dwara was half-heartedly trying to pull Timir away from the gate when a cold, booming voice sounded from within.

“Trivikram, bring them to me.”

“Was that Lord Kastha’s voice?” Timir asked, looking from one guard to the other in mock elation. “I can tell he is a most kind man.”

The guards however denied him the looks of disgust he was expecting. They were smiling now.

“Enough, Timir. We should leave now,” Dwara said urgently, trying hard to keep worry from showing. “I know this Trivikram. You don’t want to…”

The man who came through the gate the very next moment was a revelation to Timir. He had never met anyone a head taller than himself, or broader by half a hand. There was something else too - an unnatural power about his presence, that made the hairs on the back of Timir’s neck stand.

“Come with me,” said the giant called Trivikram.

“No,” Dwara tugged at Timir’s sleeve.

Timir turned to find Dwara’s face pale. Unbidden, his face betrayed a softness. When she noticed the change however, he stepped back into the transparent farce he was putting on for the benefit of Kastha’s men.

“WHAT! You will have me reject Lord Kastha’s invitation, so graciously extended?”

“You don’t understand,” Dwara said, tearing up as she fought to keep her voice down. “He took my brothers away. I lost everything to him.”

Timir let go of Dwara’s hand and stared at her, taking in her fear and disgust at the man in whose shadow they stood. He then spoke to her, gentle as a breeze, “If you think yourself unsafe with me, you may leave now and I will not stop you. But if you choose to enter this place with me, I will let you watch me end him.”

Dwara found she did not doubt Timir, and took a deep breath before meeting Trivikram’s cruel gaze. She walked then, alongside Koru’s vessel, as he entered Kastha’s keep making unseemly jokes about the smell of the place.

After she had gotten over herself, and when they had passed the second and third daitya-made gates, she realised there was a strange smell to the place. Nothing pungent, just an overpowering aroma wafting over from all around.

“It’s the walls,” Timir said. “They’re smeared with it.”

“What is it?”

“Purple Prajapati. The essence of it anyway. It’s a flower that… It is used to wake the unconscious. The smell drives sleep away, can keep you awake for weeks.”

“But why?”

“My guess? Your Lord Kastha needs his men awake at all hours. He must not employ too many here. The ones he does, have to watch him at all hours. I almost feel bad for our friend Trivikram here. No wonder he doesn’t laugh at my jokes - he’s had no sleep.”

After a good deal more walking through halls that were actually only corridors built by daitya hands, they reached what was the middle of the tower - a vast space within the keep’s walls able to contain the entire compound downstairs but presently occupied only by a golden throne draped in silks and ornaments too large for any man or woman. The walls were covered with weapons - swords and bows and axes seemingly made of glass and held together by threads of light. Their limited glow illuminated the small man sitting on the throne, made smaller still by all that surrounded him.

“Look Dwara. It seems our host is a hoarder,” Timir said.

To be continued…

Westward Stranger will continue in the next issue of Aagaami. If you would like to be notified when the new chapter drops, please subscribe.

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★ All links relevant to the series can be found on the official web page

New chapters are published every Monday!

Sueila a month behind him, Timir had walked, hitched rides on passing carts (granted more out of fear than kindness), and eventually made his way into a sparse forest before finding himself on a hill overlooking ruins that seemed to have been carved into the hills.

Ugr on shoulder, he descended into the city and soon found an old man carrying a basket full of berries, “You there dada! What is this place called?”

“Yamuk, Lord Kastha’s domain,” he replied, looking Timir up and down. “Arambans are not welcome here.”

“I am neither Aramban nor friend to Aramba,” Timir replied with as much of a smile as he could afford. “This Lord Kastha of yours seems a good man.”

“The most powerful of jadukars,” the old man said, laying down the basket. “Feared by all who would threaten us and steal from us. Even giants such as you are as rodents before his might.”

“I am certain that is true,” Timir nodded and walked on, as he had learned to do when friendly smiles did nothing to make people fear him less. All he wanted from this Yamuk was a soft bed to sleep in and perhaps a haircut.

Yamuk paled before the majesty of the ruins it lived inside. People milled about in streets between rows of brick houses built in the shadow of ancient stone walls that seemed to have been raised, Timir figured, by the Daityas themselves. Thanks to Koru, Timir had an awareness of the history of the world, and even though it wasn’t a set of perfect memories because the god resting inside him was as reticent as they came, it was good enough for him to be able to tell old from new.

The bathhouse for example, and the fruit and fish vendors that lined its gates, were entirely inside a temple. Timir was quite sure the main bath, full of townsfolk of all ages right now, had once been a ceremonial pool of some kind. He considered a dip before deciding he needed sleep more.

“I am not of the Aramban empire,” he said to the innkeeper when the lady eyed him suspiciously instead of answering his request for a room.

“That’s exactly what an Aramban spy would say.”

“While wearing Aramban colours?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“They would more likely demand that you give them the room and kill you if you said no.”

“And you wouldn’t?”

“Never.”

“So if I told you to go away, you would?”

“Absolutely I would.”

“Then go away.”

Timir swore under his breath, then sighed and plunked a small bag of Aramban gold on the counting table between them. The lady examined one of the coins and didn’t make a fuss even when she clearly recognised the Aramban seal on it. Gold was gold.

“Still want me to go away?”

The innkeeper hesitated before speaking, “We have girls…”

“A bed will suffice.”

The bed in the upstairs room was the best she had, and it was too small. It shrieked something birdlike every time Timir made the slightest turn. It also didn’t help that the room had a large window that let in the yelling of hawkers and passers-by from the street below. Timir dragged the mattress out of the bed and was trying to fall asleep on the floor when the sound of clattering right outside the door made him sit up.

A woman was picking up a mug from the floor, risking everything else on the tray she was holding in her other hand. When Timir took it from her, she gasped.

“I am sorry sir. Lady Arni sent food for you and asked me to…”

“I didn’t ask for food,” Timir rested the tray on the small table and allowed the aroma of its contents to negotiate with his fatigue. Maybe he did need to eat.

“I have never been with an Aramban,” the woman said, entering the room and closing the door behind her.

Timir turned, stared at her, swore, and rubbed his forehead to keep from yelling obscenities at the lady downstairs, whose name apparently was Arni.

“What’s your name, friend?”

“Dwara.”

“I ate part of a large tree animal only a few hours ago Dwara, so I am not that hungry. You have brought me civilised food and it would sadden me to have it go waste. Will you share this meal with me and tell me about this Yamuk of yours?”

A little light showed on Dwara’s face. “But Lady Arni…”

“Lady Arni can go f…” Timir stopped himself, took a deep breath, and resumed more calmly. “I mean… if you need me to lie to her, I will.”

The loaves were oven fresh and the gravy hot. Dwara informed Timir that the fish was from the lake at the centre of the town. “Sacred waters. Impossible to fish in without permission from Lord Kastha.”

“Why is that?”

“I don’t really know,” she replied between bites. “I remember playing by the water when I was a girl. But there was an outbreak once. Worm fever. Horrid disease! It took Lord Kastha four years but he cured the town. Afterwards, people were told to stay away from the lake. Probably for the best. Lord Kastha knows what he is doing.”

“I am sure he is,” Timir said, placing his bowl down and pouring himself a mug of something purple and white with visible glee.

“You are not like any Aramban I ever heard of,” Dwara said, her mouth full of bread.

“What have you heard?”

“That they’re cruel and evil and use dark magics.”

“And you know for a fact that I am none of those things?”

Dwara nodded.

“I am not Aramban, Dwara. I have met many though, and some of them are almost as pleasant as you.”

Dwara stared at him as she resumed eating. Timir returned to his drink and was about to ask her what he was drinking when the door flung open with a crash and four men barged in wielding swords and sticks.

“Come with us Aramban,” said the one in the cleanest clothes, one of the swords. “Lord Kastha wishes to see you.”

“Why?” Timir asked, standing up to face the men. Despite their bluster, they had clearly tip-toed all the way up the stairs.

“We do not answer to you, Aramban!”

“He is not Aramban,” Dwara said, rising.

“Silence, whore!” shouted one of the others and lifted his stick to swing at her. Timir’s left arm shot out and grabbed him by the neck. The stick clattered to the floor as the man fumbled against the fingers around his neck before reaching into his belt and drawing a knife.

Before he could cut at anything though, Timir flung him bodily out of the window, into the busy street below. A crash ended his scream, and for a moment, even the hawkers were silent.

Timir turned to the remaining three, frozen in alarm, and spoke calmly, "Wait for me downstairs. My friend and I wish to finish our meal."

To be continued…

Westward Stranger will continue in the next issue of Aagaami. If you would like to be notified when the new chapter drops, please subscribe.

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You can read Westward Stranger on other platforms too

★ WattPad https://www.wattpad.com/story/410985088-westward-stranger

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★ Tapas https://tapas.io/series/Westward-Stranger/info

★ All links relevant to the series can be found on the official web page

New chapters are published every Monday!

The soldier turned to look at her, tears returning to his eyes, and began speaking.

“We had left the eastern tip of Sueila behind an hour ago when it began to pour for real. Soon there was thunder loud enough to spook the horses and I doubt they could see farther than ten paces through the downpour. I covered the wagon, cage and all, as best I could. The rakshas slept through it all. Some time later, the captain asked me to come into the cabin…”

“The jadukar?”

“Captain Heerak,” the soldier nodded, speaking with as much pride as he could muster. “Captain of the Aramban ship Suryasetu, direct disciple of the seventeenth Consul, master of the arts, feared by the low filth of the southern islands and conqueror of…”

Here he broke down and couldn’t carry on any longer except to whisper the words “such a great man” and “such a good man” over and over again between sobs. Evidently, he had spent many long years in the jadukar’s employ. Ahala let him mourn the loss of his master and soon he returned to his story.

“When the rain didn’t cease, some of us suggested turning back, but the Captain refused. He wanted nothing more than to have the rakshas face Aramban justice. But then Reho started hurling down thunderbolts and split a tree nearby in two. I and another got out to keep the horses from rocking the carriage when we noticed the cage… or what was left of it.

“We thought the rakshas gone, but found him standing in the rain nearby, a silver lined shadow in the dusk’s torrent. It wasn’t until he let out that unearthly roar that I discovered it wasn’t quite him.”

“What do you mean?” Ahala asked.

“For one thing, his sword had returned to him somehow. He held the full load of it in one hand as easily as if it had been a branch the rough wind had cast down. He was almost twice as broad and a head taller. When he parted his jaws a second time, I saw a row of tiger teeth lining them. The servant beside me, one called Sahu, fled into the trees at the terrifying sight. The rakshas moved, and though I saw powerful muscles rippling beneath its grey skin as he crouched, his leap was a blur and didn’t know where he was until he landed on top of the carriage and one of the wheels cracked loudly under the impact.

“He ripped the roof off and reached in with one long arm, but withdrew it immediately and I saw it scorched when he fell back into the mud. The captain had summoned the mystic sun again and was holding it aloft to ward him off. But then the rakshas raised his black sword and brought it down upon the carriage, splitting it in two and killing one of the other soldiers at once. He then leapt back and waited.

“The captain was unhurt, but his made sun was beginning to smoke under the rain. By the time he stepped out of the ruined carriage, it was all but gone from his hand. The rakshas laughed something cold and spoke to the captain, challenging him to a duel in the falling rain. He thought the captain had run out of magics, but he was wrong!

“I stepped back as the captain dug his fingers into the ground, chanting. The rakshas swung his sword around, as if hearing unseen enemies come at him from all around. Then I heard it too — echoes of the captain’s chant. It was as if a thousand voices were repeating his words from beyond the line of trees. As if to prove I was not imagining it, Sahu came running back out of the forest, screaming like the falling rain was burning the skin off his back.

“Sahu was the first to notice that the ground beneath our feet was now parched despite the rain. The captain’s chants had turned the mud to dirt and it was as if the falling rain was now disappearing as soon as it hit the earth. Now my skin crawled and I heard the rakshas laugh again. His laughter did not subside even when serpents… no vines… vines erupted from the ground around him looking to tie him up. He swung and spun, visible only in the moments when he stopped to look at the kneeling captain and laugh. I did not understand at first, but then I saw an entire line of trees wilted by the roadside, turning black so the invading vines may stay green. This was a soul-sucking magic! Even the captain’s skin was turning white as the earth fed upon him. His lips weren’t moving anymore - the forest had taken up the chant.

“Despairing, I hurled my spear at the rakshas, who had his back turned to me at that moment. The spear lodged in his thigh and drew blood that the vines began to lap at. Sahu threw his spear too, and even though the black sword knocked it away, we knew then that its wielder had been weakened. The vines tightened around his arms and legs, driving him to his knees. The captain let out a groan, and I saw that colour was returning to his face. He freed one hand from the earth, then another, and the forest stopped chanting.

“Staggering to his feet, the captain gestured for my aid and together we made for the rakshas, who was now kneeling, his throat in a green hold and his arms helpless to free him even though his sword arm still held his weapon. He turned to look at us and said he was glad to see the captain had paid the price too. The captain was too drained to speak, so I told the rakshas to be quiet or lose his head.

“I looked to the captain to see if he wanted to say anything, but found that he was chanting again — different words this time, but also a different language. It sounded like nothing I have heard spoken among Aramban mystics, or among any people I have ever met. Though his lips moved, the sound that came out of his mouth was not that of spoken words. It was as the rasping of a dying animal, played to an unnatural, hypnotic rhythm.

“The captain pushed me away and managed to stay on his feet as he continued to chant. The rakshas struggled with such fierce restlessness, I thought the vines would snap. Perhaps, beast that he was, he sensed the meaning the captain’s chant carried.

“The captain knelt beside the bound rakshas and placed an emaciated hand on his massive chest. The vines pressed tighter around his throat, killing any words that might have escaped. Before my very eyes, the captain’s white hand began to turn blue — a bony claw that dug into his enemy’s grey flesh, paying him pain, buying his inhuman strength from him in return.

“It wasn’t only colour that was returning to the captain. I watched his limbs stretch into a tree ape’s and his head flatten into something resembling a fish’s snout. Frothing at the mouth, he greedily pushed his claws deeper into the rakshas and I could almost see the beasts’s perverse power flowing into him, granting his arms muscle and sinew even as it bent his spine till he could no longer stand straight.

“My throat dry, I realised that the captain was gone. I whispered, then screamed his name at the thing that stood where he had a few moments ago and drew its gaze, but there was no recognition in its beady eyes—only endless greed. It left the now unconscious rakshas and turned to me, but its legs were too short and soft. All it could do was move its muscular arms, dig its claws into the mud and drag its misshapen form towards me, emitting an unearthly moan as it advanced.

“The thing that had been my captain reached out for me. Whether it sought my help or was looking to feed on me, I couldn’t say. But then I heard the snapping of vines and looked up to see the rakshas break free from his bonds and rise, a weaker man than before but a man nevertheless. The magic that moved the vines appeared to have faded after the captain’s attention moved to me. Heaving hard, he picked up his sword with both hands and brought it down on the creature that lay in the mud before me, pinning it to the earth.

“Sahu had fled some time ago. I stood alone before the man who had been a rakshas in the rain. Now, in the early hours of darkness, I saw his strength return to him by way of his sword, which was still lodged in the dead creature. Though he let it back in with eyes closed, I thought him sadder for it, resigned to being home to a power that could not live anywhere else.

“Having thus restored himself, he moved closer and looked me in the eyes. After a moment during which I thought he was going to end me, he swung his sword one last time and struck the creature’s head clean off. Then he kicked it into the bushes nearby for good measure.”

Ahala waited for him to continue, but when he said nothing more, she got up and prepared to leave.

“He… He told me not to follow him,” the soldier said.

“You better not then,” Ahala replied.

“Do you think… he is here? In the city? What if I run into him?”

“I don’t think you need to worry about him anymore. I think he went west,” Ahala said before pulling up her scarf and stepping out into the Sueilan rain.

To be continued…

Westward Stranger will continue in the next issue of Aagaami. If you would like to be notified when the new chapter drops, please subscribe.

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★ Tapas https://tapas.io/series/Westward-Stranger/info

New chapters are published every Monday!

“You think your god will save you?”

Timir opened an eye and examined the darkening sky. “We’ve been moving east for how many hours now?”

“No more than two, I think,” Ahala said.

“You should return then beautiful,” Timir said, closing his eyes and lying back down. “Koru will be upon us soon.”

Ahala was about to ask him what he meant when the bickering inside ceased and the jadukar emerged from the constabulary looking like he was going to set the place on fire. She only had time to fling one last whisper at him, “What is your name?”

“Timir,” he replied before the carriage resumed lurching ahead. Ahala stood there until the first raindrops started touching the back of her neck. She noticed, as she pulled up her headscarf and started heading back, that the sky was promising a storm.

There was no news from Aramba for a month, aside from the usual proclamations from their council and an occasional rebel raid on their supply wagons. The rains had been merciless and all the ships that had stopped at Sueila before the season began were still anchored there. The city’s nobles were hosting some of the larger ships’ captains in their palatial homes and portside inns were full of sailors and those they brought to their beds most nights. After nights of drunken revelry, they were back in taverns by midday for more drunken revelry.

Ahala spotted the Aramban soldier one such rainy afternoon in a tavern near her shop. He was without his spear and his regimental garb and what he did have on had seen better days, much as he seemed to have. He sat drinking from a battered wooden mug mere paces from where she stood listening to a rebel member of the metalworkers guild talk about the need to unite against the Arambans before it was too late. She had been attending more of these meetings lately, now that the monsoon had trapped the Arambans in Sueila and their local Commandants were going easy on resistance meetings for fear of forcing their hand into starting something they didn’t have the numbers to end.

“You are part of the Aramban regiment, are you not?” Ahala said and found no recognition of her in his bloodshot eyes when he turned to look at her. As far as he was concerned, their encounter seemed to have happened in another age. Also, he seemed to have been crying.

“Leave me be,” he said. “You can have your little meetings. See if I care!”

“You were with the prisoner,” Ahala said.

The soldier looked up, the keenness returning to his eyes along with a nameless dread. “Which prisoner?”

“The… rakshas? You were with the jadukar who were taking him to Aramba… in a cage… Do you remember?”

The soldier stared at her, remembering. “You were there too. I remember you now. You were speaking to him.” He stood abruptly up, knocking back his chair. “You know him!”

“I met him on the same day you did, not long before you, by the port,” Ahala said calmly. The soldier stared at her like a madman, then looked around and realised he was surrounded by Sueilians and checked his disquiet before sitting back down.

“Did you take him to Aramba?” Ahala asked.

The soldier shook his head and quietly took a sip of his drink.

“Is he here in town?” Ahala asked.

“I don’t know where he is,” the soldier said, his voice breaking. “And I should thank almighty Reho if I never have to lay eyes on that abomination again.”

Ahala waited until his breathing returned to normal before touching his hand gently and saying, “Tell me what happened.”

To be continued…

Westward Stranger will continue in the next issue of Aagaami. If you would like to be notified when the new chapter drops, please subscribe.

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You can read Westward Stranger on other platforms too

★ WattPad https://www.wattpad.com/story/410985088-westward-stranger

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★ Tapas https://tapas.io/series/Westward-Stranger/info

New chapters are published every Monday!

Ahala, watching, withdrew behind the shop’s curtains as the Aramban jadukar spoke a ball of blue smoke and glowing golden fire into existence before him. The stranger, who he had called rakshas, placed a hand on the sword’s grip and let it rest there as he waited for the soldiers to close in, their spears pointed at his heart.

In a flash, the stranger turned and proved the wizard right. He was a rakshas! Or at least a man close enough to one in strength. Tightening his fingers around the greatsword’s grip, he swung it once in a half circle, knocking the spears away, then hefted it with both hands and stood snarling at his hunters.

The spearmen looked at each other before charging, but before they got close enough to strike, Timir swung the blade downwards and with the strength of both his arms, drove it into the pavement upon which the shop stood. With a quarter of it under, the sword still stood half as tall as any of the attacking Arambans. He placed a palm on the skull-shaped pommel and pushed off, launching himself into the air above them. He had landed in front of the still chanting jadukar before they had realised he was behind them. He had rammed his fist into the jadukar’s stomach, knocking the wind out of him before they turned. Unfortunately, as he realised when they tackled him to the ground, he had been a moment too late to stop the chant.

The small sun was already growing.

The jadukar, his right hand clutching his gut, cast the small sun he had created, over his head, where it shone with a brightness that rivalled that of the real sun. He then touched the cobbled ground before him and caused a great wall of stone to rise between him and Timir. The shadow it cast quickly grew darker even than nights had right to be. Though the shadow did not even span the length of the quay, Timir found himself in a consuming darkness that confounded his eyes, ears, and even his thoughts. He swung his arms around and hit nothing, for the Arambans had skittered away and were keeping their distance. One of them lunged forward and stabbed his side, another clocked him on the head with the hilt of his shortsword.

Timir blinked, as if seeing double, and mustered a burst of strength to charge them. He flailed around, seeking Ugr, but it was on the other side of the spearmen. The jadukar beyond the wall was hidden from him. When he sought the edge of the shadow so he could go around and end the man in purple, Timir found it shifting — the coward must have moved his made sun to keep the false night upon him. Its darkness fed on him mercilessly until his every muscle ached and he had no thought left.

When Timir opened his eyes, blinking to understand where it hurt, he found himself in a cage that was rocking like the horse-drawn cart it was on. Though the wound in his side was already healing, there was blood on his new shirt, this time his own. He groaned, and swore loudly that he would only fight naked from now on.

“Is it true then?” he heard the girl’s voice and looked around, blinking. She was walking alongside the cart. “Are you a rakshas?”

“No,” he said, rubbing his eyes to see her better. “Why do you ask?”

“That’s what the jadukar called you,” Ahala said. “After he knocked you out and they put you in this cage, they told everyone there that you were a monster and you had killed many innocents.”

“And why did you not believe them?” Timir asked and was amused to see her blush. But she recovered quickly enough.

“They are Aramban occupiers for one thing. And you didn’t strike me as a rakshas.”

“It is true that I have killed many,” Timir admitted. “But I am only a man,” Timir said. “They call me rakshas because I serve Koru.”

“Koru?”

“He is a god.”

Ahala was lost in thought for a while. Then she asked, “Are you a priest then?”

“If only,” Timir said, leaning closer. “Priests are better at resisting temptation.”

“And you aren’t?” Ahala asked.

“Me? I fall for everything. Foul magics, pretty girls, you name it.”

“What about your god? Does he like what you like?”

“He is a man of simple tastes. He just wants to go west. He likes anything that helps him go west. He kills anything that tries to stop him from going west.”

“What’s in the west?”

“Fuck knows,” Timir said and fell silent. For a while, the only sounds were those of the cart creaking and the occasional passerby yelling at the Arambans to leave Sueila and never come back.

A soldier came by to check on Timir and was somewhat disappointed to find him sleeping peacefully. He prodded him awake and threw taunts at him, “Wondering where your sword is rakshas?”

“Not really,” Timir replied, his arm over his eyes. “You threw it in the sea.”

“Good guess,” replied the soldier.

“I am not guessing,” Timir said and let his captor stare at him in confusion. He was about to get another prod for his trouble when the cart stopped. From the corner of his eye, Timir saw the jadukar get down, still a little winded from the fist to his gut, and walk into the constabulary.

From inside, Timir heard them speaking in Hodi. It grew louder soon, and then there was shouting. “What are they talking about?” he asked.

Ahala, who was also listening, said, “The jadukar wants to have you executed here in Sueila this very evening. The constable refuses. He doesn’t want the trouble of exciting a rebellion in Sueila.”

“Why would my execution excite the rebels?”

“I think he considers you part of the Sueilan resistence. The jadukar is telling him you were sentenced to death in Aramba. The constable is saying he is most welcome to take you back to Aramba.”

“This is priceless,” Timir said, chuckling.

“You find this amusing?” Ahala asked. “They are deciding where to kill you.”

“If only killing me was as simple a matter as deciding where,” Timir said.

To be continued…

Westward Stranger will continue in the next issue of Aagaami. If you would like to be notified when the new chapter drops, please subscribe.

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★ Tapas https://tapas.io/series/Westward-Stranger/info

New chapters are published every Monday (May 18 onwards)

Timir woke up covered in blood not his own. The three Arambans, whose blood it was, lay dead and dismembered around him, their crushed heads and bent armours telling tales of last night. Fighting to keep thoughts of Koru out of his mind, Timir stood up and cleaned himself up with the water in the trough as best he could. There was bloody grime under his fingernails and it caked his hair as well. He would need new clothes soon too. The rags he had worn for the past several weeks had seen better days.

The horse had bolted in the night. He would have to find a new one... right after he found Ugr. Understandably, someone had swiped his big ugly greatsword thinking him dead. This wasn’t the first town he had lost it in. It wouldn’t be the last.

Having enriched himself with a dagger and some gold from the dead mercenaries, Timir made his way out of the stable and into the mid-day sun of Sueila. A few boys saw him and fled. Something told him to follow them, so he did and soon found himself in a part of the market he had been in last evening. Had he been less drunk then, he might have noticed things other than the three men tailing him, like the richly coloured fabrics that lined the shopfronts, or the fact that the Sueilan flag had a goat’s head in the top right corner.

Timir swore and slipped into the lane next to the garment shop. He stripped off his bloodied shirt and entered the shop through a window, immediately startling an old man. Before he had time to make a noise, Timir threw his bag of gold at his feet and said, “This is Aramban gold. Can it buy me a clean shirt?”

The Aramban gold, it turned out, could buy him much more than a shirt. It could buy him robes and headgear to help him pass as a noble. It could even buy him smiles from the girls who dressed him and the caress of their soft hands. He allowed his thoughts to wander until better sense prevailed and he reined in his fantasies. He wasn’t cruel enough to inflict his darkness upon them. After spending a little more of the gold to buy their silence, he left the shop through the main entrance before adding his new colours to those of the mid-morning market crowd.

“Is that a sword or a pillar from the ruins of Samargund?” said Ahala, examining the blade that looked more stone than steel. “It would take three men to heft it, forget swinging it. What’s it made of?”

The two fortune hunters who had dragged the thing to her portside pawn shop looked at each other. “Enkum?” the short one suggested.

Ahala snorted. She had no idea what enkum looked like, so she decided to answer their bluff with one of her own.

“Wrong colour,” she said confidently.

“We got it from a dead man by the stables,” the tall one said, deciding to go with honesty. “There were some dead Arambans there too.”

Ahala looked up and considered him with a frown, “And you decided stealing from murdered Arambans was wise, did you?”

“Since when do you care?” he replied. “Will you take it or should we find another…”

Ahala held up her hand and resumed examining the red letters etched into the blade as she spoke. “No one here will risk buying something you stole from Arambans. That right there…” she pointed at a small ship anchored just past the pier, “…is an Aramban ship. Would you like me to point you out to them? Maybe you can discuss what enkum is going for these days.”

The tall man froze, then recovered in time to grab the short one by the collar, who seemed like he was about to bolt. He was about to say something when Ahala spotted a tall nobleman in rich greens turn the corner. She instantly thought him odd for he had no servants behind him, nor a carriage of any kind.

“That is one ugly sword,” Timir said loudly as he got closer. “Are you selling it?” The two men turned and stared at him. The short one was the first to run, away from the market. The tall one ran too, but in the other direction. The stranger looked at him go with an expression that Ahala thought was resigned sadness.

“I take it the sword is yours,” Ahala said. “You don’t look Aramban to me.”

“Then I bought all this for nothing,” Timir said, feigning regret as he gestured at his garb.

“If you wanted to pass for Aramban, you should have bought purple.”

“I did, a few moons ago, in Aramba itself. Didn’t work. They sentenced me to death.”

“You don’t seem dead.”

“That is because I made my escape by killing a whole lot of them…” Timir said and pointed at the greatsword lying on the counter between them. “…with that.”

Ahala took measure of the man before her. He wasn’t bad to look at despite the scruffy hair and the sad eyes, but she doubted even he was strong enough to wield the monstrosity that lay before her.

“Tell me,” she said. “Is this sword made of enkum?”

“Could be daitya bone for all I know,” Timir replied. “I stole it from a temple in Banki.”

“Banki?” Ahala said, doing her best not to look impressed. “Is that to the east?”

“Yes,” Timir replied. “Far east.”

“Is that where you are from?”

“No. I am from even farther east.”

“And what brings you here?”

“The need to go west.”

“What’s in the west?” Ahala asked, but Timir didn’t answer. His attention had been claimed by commotion coming from the ship’s general direction. Ahala figured she wasn’t going to get much more out of the stranger. Not that she cared. Anyone the Arambans wanted dead was alright in her book.

“The sword is yours,” she said. “If you can manage it.”

“That’s my curse…” Timir said and hesitated.

“Ahala.”

“That is my curse Ahala. I always manage,” Timir said, a gentle sadness colouring his words, just as the Arambans stepped into the shadow of the awning.

“It’s over rakshas,” said their leader who was wearing purple, unlike the rest of the Arambans who were in green so much darker than Timir’s new robes, they might as well be wearing black.

“It’s been over before,” Timir replied, sounding absent-minded.

The man in purple swore. Timir thought it sounded too coarse to be high Aramban. What followed was a chant though. He knew this because his skin began to tingle and the hair on his arms stood on end. Magic!

To Be Continued…

Westward Stranger will continue in the next issue of Aagaami. If you would like to be notified when the new chapter drops, please subscribe.

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New chapters are published every Monday. (May 18 onwards)

The cave was dark. What made the darkness worse, Aladin thought as he felt tears roll down his cheeks, was the fact that he was going to die in it.

He screamed once, and when he heard it echoed from what must have been an even deeper darkness within the cave, he screamed again. He called out to the magician, the one who had trapped him in here, and apologised at the top of his voice and said he could have his lamp and that all he wanted now was to be free.

When there was no response, a voice within Aladin said that the magician was punishing him for his defiance and that he was going to be back in the morning to get his lamp. Another voice chided him for being a greedy coward.

Then, as the fear shrank back for a moment and gave way to rage, Aladin pulled the lamp out from his pocket and flung it as hard as he could against what he imagined to be the wall in front of him.

A scrape, a clang, and some clattering later, there was silence. But this silence gave way to a humming. It was a metallic sound - as if thousands of tiny bells had been rung at once. Aladin, thankful for something to focus on other than the darkness, listened to it and noted after some time, that he was hearing whispers.

As the whispering grew louder, he could make out words. They did not belong to any language he spoke, or had heard, or had picked up at the port from merchants he was about to steal from, but they were words nevertheless. They had meaning and music and even a kind of urgency.

The music, which he focused on because it was the only thing he could appreciate, grew to fill his awareness. It rose and fell and came to be beautiful to him in the darkness. Then it repeated and repeated and repeated until Aladin knew what to expect next. He was predicting the path the tune would take before the music got there. He failed a few times, but pretty soon he was humming the tune to himself before he heard it.

As he did so, he started hearing words - parts of the song he had so far been incapable of telling apart from the rhythm and the beats. Some were urgent and forced themselves into moments. Others were longer and took up more space. And then...

Aladin stopped humming.

“Who is it? Who are you?” he said, breathless.

When there was no response, Aladin spoke again, “I’m just a thief. I don’t know what is happening here. The magician... he trapped me here in this cave. Am I going to die? Am I dead? Please! I don’t know what is happening here.”

“Explain,” said a voice made out of the notes of the tune Aladin had been listening to. It was calm and perhaps, Aladin thought, a little curious.

“I heard my name,” Aladin said. “In the song. I don’t understand what the song means, but it had my name in it. I heard it like I hear you now. It was there.”

“What is your name?”

“Aladin.”

“I see,” said the voice. “You need not fear me Aladin. I will not harm you. Your name was in the song because... well... every name is in the song. It contains every name of every person, every place, every object that ever existed.”

“What kind of a song is this?”

“It’s the song Aladin,” said the voice, growing warm. “The only song that ever was. The eternal song, the song that plays all the time, everywhere, connecting all times and places, all realities. Everything is a part of it, including you.”

“Did you make this... did you write this song?”

“Hell no,” the voice seemed to chuckle. “It was playing when we got here. Even we don’t know how long it has been playing and when it started.”

“Who... who are you?”

“We are... we are not sure you will understand.”

“Are you Djinn?”

There was laughter in the darkness. Aladin could not be sure if it was one or many that were laughing.

“We are transdimensional beings. We travel up and down the layers of reality. Sometimes, we even go sideways. In some places, we are known as gods, in some they call us spirits or yakshas. Some of us have created worlds in empty spaces that we found. Some of us only exist in spaces where time doesn’t. Some of us choose not to exist at all.”

“I don’t understand,” Aladin said.

“Told you!”

“Can you get me out of here?”

“Out of where?”

“Out of this cave?”

“Define cave.”

“You don’t know what a cave is? We are in one right now.”

“We are on a world, in a universe Aladin. Do you wish to leave the world or the universe? If you wish to leave this reality altogether, we’re afraid we can’t help. There are rules.”

Aladin didn’t want to ask for the wrong thing without understanding what he was getting. That’s how he had gotten himself in this cave in the first place. Almost everything the Djinn had said sounded like it could kill him.

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“You keep saying realities,” Aladin said. “What does that mean? How can there be more than one reality?”

“How can there not be?” said the Djinn. “Realities birth realities. Sometimes by themselves, sometimes when they mate with each other. New realities come into being all the time. This is just one of them.”

“Where are these other realities?”

“You may not understand.”

“Or I may,” Aladin said after wondering if he should give up and then deciding against it.

The Djinn was silent for a good moment before speaking.

“Alright,” it said at last. “Imagine you were a character in a story that was being written or told by someone.”

Aladin nodded uncertainly in the darkness, but the Djinn could apparently see him, because it responded with, “Did that make sense?”

“I think so,” said Aladin. “Who is writing my story?”

“Let’s see...” the Djinn said and fell silent.

“Are you there?” asked Aladin.

“Yes, I am there.”

“Where?”

“There,” the Djinn replied. “Where your story is being told.”

“Where?”

“There,” the Djinn said again, and then added. “Don’t worry. I am also here.”

“You are in... you are in two realities at the same time?”

“Yes,” the Djinn said. “When realities are right next to each other with nothing separating them, I can sometimes exist in more than one. This reality is a direct result of that one, so I can... it’s like turning my head this way and that to see what’s happening here and there... does that make sense?”

“Not at all,” Aladin said. “I didn’t even know you had a head.”

“Right,” the Djinn said. “I kind of don’t. But... wait.”

The darkness began to give way to a blue glow. It wasn’t a lot. Just enough to let Aladin see the outline of ...a man? Or rather, the outline of a man drawn against the darkness with a glowing blue brush. The image did not move, and Aladin found that if he moved, it disappeared from his sight. Only by keeping his eyes at exactly the same place could he see the Djinn.

“Can you see my head now?” the Djinn said. “I am doing my best but maintaining simultaneous form and presence on two levels is a little complicated.”

Aladin had no idea what the Djinn had just said, so he replied, “It’s fine. Tell me what is happening there.”

The Djinn flickered once before speaking, “Her name is Sheherzaad. She is sitting before a man... a king... her husband... and telling him about you.”

“What is she saying?”

“That you are trapped in a cave after having been stranded here by an evil wizard who wanted you to get a magic lamp for him.”

“And...?”

“And that you have accidentally summoned the Djinn from the magic lamp and are now speaking with him.”

“And...?”

“Honestly, you don’t want to hear it from me. She is a way better storyteller than I could be,” the Djinn said. “I wish you could hear her.”

“Can I?” Aladin asked.

“Not possible,” said the Djinn. “You cannot enjoy corporeal existence in any reality except this one.”

“Then I do have to hear it from you, don’t I?”

“There’s nothing more to hear,” the Djinn said. “She is done. And...”

“What does that mean? How is she done? The story can’t be over,” Aladin said with a hint of dread in his voice.

“Wait,” the Djinn said as his form flickered once more. “Her husband... the king...”

“What about him?”

“He’s...” the Djinn said and hesitated. “He is saying... He just said.... Hold on. I don’t understand this.”

“What? What don’t you understand?”

“I need to verify this. I will be right back,” the Djinn said before everything went dark once more.

Aladin couldn’t tell time in the darkness. He was beginning to entertain the suspicion that he had hallucinated the whole thing when the Djinn’s form flickered back into existence.

“What happened? Where did you go?”

“Apologies for phasing out,” the Djinn said. “I had to expand my field of awareness there in order to get a fuller understanding of what the king was saying.”

Aladin waited for more. And as he did so, he noticed there was a little more to the Djinn now than just a blue outline. There were hints of muscle and sinew, and even something of a face. And when Aladin moved, the Djinn’s form remained where it was. It was more real now.

“What did the king say?” Aladin asked when the Djinn didn’t offer anything. He appeared preoccupied.

“The king... he...” the Djinn said fumbling uncharacteristically. “Give me a moment. I am recalibrating my presence. I had to become tangible there to speak with some palace attendants. Copying appearances is relatively easy, but growing a whole new personality from scratch took a lot out of me.”

“I have no idea what that means,” Aladin said.

“Fortunately, you don’t have to,” the Djinn said and started laughing in a way that Aladin thought was new. “Anyway, the thing I heard the king say was somewhat curious and that’s why I had to go investigate.”

“What did he say?”

“He said... Well... He basically told Sheherzaad she could live.”

“She could live?”

“Yes, as in... he gave her permission to live.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The king told her that he was pleased with the story and would like to hear more the following night. Therefore he was not having her put to death.”

“Why would he say that? Who says that? Why would he have his own wife put to death?”

“I asked around. Most of his courtiers said he was the king and therefore could do as he wished. A couple asked me who was I to ask such questions. Eventually I did manage to speak with one of Sheherzaad’s attendants. She said that the king had always had his wives put to death after their first night together.”

“That makes no sense,” Aladin said.

“That’s what I said, but there was no clear answer. I scanned for realities based on stories about the king’s younger days but could only find shallow worlds made of fawning praise and adulation written by cheap court hacks. There was nothing in those stories about how he came to hate women.”

“Did you... did you visit any of those stories?”

“No. I didn’t need to. Sometimes, you can judge books by their covers.”

Aladin wondered if the Djinn had noticed that he was no longer referring to himself as “we”, but decided not to bring it up. There were more important questions on his mind.

“So Sheherzaad is also going to... he is going to kill her?” Aladin asked.

“Some day, yes. When he no longer finds her story interesting.”

“Her story,” Aladin repeated.

“Your story,” the Djinn said. “Although it’s not just your story. She has been telling him tales for hundreds of days now. Each night, she stops mid-story and he has to decide whether he wants to hear more. And fortunately for her, each night he has decided that he wants to know what happens next.”

“Tell me about these other stories,” Aladin said.

“Oh they’re wonderful Ali,” the Djinn said and stepped forward, apparently unaware of the fact that he was now a tall, dark man dressed in the richest silk and gold. “In one story there are forty thieves and a magic cave. Another one has a brave sailor. It’s all... it’s really quite spectacular.”

“No wonder the king keeps wanting to hear more,” Aladin said. How was he, a thief trapped in a dark cave, to compete with all these strange and enchanting worlds?

“I hope...” Aladin said at last. “I hope you realise that this story, my story, my life, the story Sheherzaad is telling the mad king right now... I hope you realise that it is also your story.”

The Djinn was silent for a long while before he said, “I guess so. I guess... you are right.”

Then he clapped his hands and broke into a thunderous laughter. As the light of a thousand suns banished darkness from the cave and Aladin shielded his eyes, he heard the Djinn say, “How do you feel about defeating an evil magician and winning the heart of a princess?”

“If we must,” Aladin said.

The sun was shining bright when the five princes gathered in the open field by the river to train. Their teacher was a man of few words, so instead of speaking at length about the qualities of a great archer, he asked them to notch their arrows and take aim at the eye of a wooden bird he had placed on a tree some distance away.

“What do you see Bhima?” he asked the tallest and strongest of them.

“I see the village past the tree,” he replied. “I see the smoke rising from the charred remains of huts that were set on fire by our soldiers because the household failed to pay taxes.”

“What do you see Arjuna?” the teacher asked the sharpest of the brothers after getting over the disappointment of Bhima’s answer.

“Only the bird’s eye,” he replied, filling the teacher’s heart with satisfaction.

He moved to the youngest brother. “What do you see Nakula?”

“I see men and women working hard in the fields by the village. They don’t look like they have enough to eat, let alone feed their children.”

The teacher sighed and wondered if this account of poverty had shaken Arjuna’s focus. “What do you see Arjuna?”

“Only the bird’s eye gurudev,” he replied.

The teacher, thus assured, moved to Sahadeva, and found he was not even pointing his arrow at the tree. “What are you looking at Sahadeva?”

“This is wrong gurudev,” he replied, gesturing towards the village. “I see the village elder’s son-in-law threatening farmers. The royal soldiers… our soldiers… are standing by and doing nothing. His men are attacking and beating women and children. Why don’t King Dhritarashtra’s soldiers do anything to stop them?”

Alarmed, the teacher turned to Arjuna and found him still in form, hardly breathing. “What do you see Arjuna?”

“Only the bird’s eye gurudev.”

Relieved, the teacher turned to Yudhisthira, the eldest of the five. “What do you see Yudhisthira?”

But he wasn’t there. Looking around, the teacher found him walking towards the village, seemingly about to do something about all that he was seeing instead of focusing on the eye of the bird.

“ARJUNA!” the teacher thundered as he turned to his favourite disciple one last time so he could be reminded that at least one of the princes still understood what being a great archer meant. “WHAT DO YOU SEE?”

“Only the bird’s eye gurudev,” Arjuna replied, and all was well with the world.

An old vulture sits on a branch, his eyes dim, his hearing all but gone. He watches leaves fall and smiles, thinking of the life he has had. It wasn’t so bad.

The wind brings a scream to him. From above. He squints but can’t see much. But he knows what he hears. It’s her, the kind woman who leaves food out for him sometimes.

The scream again. From right above him this time.

He jumps off the branch and falls on his face. Everything hurts. He takes a few steps and flaps his old wings, once, twice, and then on and on until his bird body remembers itself and he doesn’t have to try anymore. Everything still hurts.

The scream again. Closer this time. Right ahead. She sees him, takes his name. He squawks, saying he is coming, but perhaps he is not loud enough.

He flaps his wings harder and faster and flies right into the side of what seems like a metal vessel. It smells of rakshas. The vulture blinks, sees the woman, sees a man twice his size, feels a blow, loses an ear.

He squawks, making threats, hoping the rakshas will pay heed. He hears metal ring - a blade. Squinting, he dodges, hears the blade clang before the rakshas lifts it to swing again. He blunders forward, slashing at his opponent blindly and miraculously, manages to draw blood.

He might win this yet, he thinks, like a foolish old man. Hopes rising, he slashes again.

But the rakshas is behind him. He hears the woman scream before he sees the tip of the blade sticking out of his chest before he feels the pain. He turns to look at the woman, but can’t find her. Her screams have turned to sobs and he is falling through the air and watching the vessel grow smaller, a glint against the blue. Everything hurts.

He breaks three branches with his beak before he breaks his beak against the ground. The pain starts to go away, little by little. He hears someone calling out his name. It’s that kind man, the one who lives with that kind woman. He should tell him. He tries.

An old vulture breathes his last, in the arms of a weeping man, his last memory a regret. Nothing hurts anymore.

The people of Earth had seen the end coming for millennia, and because they were helpless to stop it, they put all their efforts into escaping it. They built massive space arcs that left the planet full of the populations of entire nations. Many of these failed and drift in deep space even today as hollow graveyards.

Some survived for a few centuries before finding barely hospitable worlds to obliterate each other on over-religious reasons in true Earth fashion. Very few actually achieved something resembling success and managed to establish what could be very generously described as civilization. Of course, these civilizations had almost no memory of where they had come from or why they had to leave.

All that existed in their libraries were myths built on myths built on myths. One of these myths, as recounted and refined upon by an apprentice Antikorian archivist writing her post-doctoral thesis on young universes of the Choral Domain, contains an account of the reason Earth met its doom. An excerpt from it is as follows:

In the beginning there was a cloud. The planet’s most powerful telescopes saw it growing in size as it came towards them from beyond the galaxy. In later centuries, particularly the thirty-fifth and the thirty-seventh, more refined scans of the cloud’s path revealed that it was actually coming from even farther away, so far away that its point of origin might have been beyond the beginning of the universe.

By the fifty-first century, the cloud came to be known as the Finger, because that is what it seemed to look like now, a long finger reaching towards Earth from the other side of space and time. It was around this time that a brilliant young mind from Iceland came to be Earth’s foremost expert on cosmology. Einar Jönsson was the first to define what he called the Hand, no less than five clouds extending towards Earth from all directions.

Though Jönsson died of Vyperplazia at the age of 234, his work was carried on by scientists all over the solar system. They discovered, over the course of the next few centuries, that the Hand had been on its way for at least 250,000 years. They also discovered that it was not, as had been previously believed, a cloud at all.

Scans showed that it was displacing matter on its way. Several star systems and at least one galaxy had had their gravitational centers knocked off course by the Fingers. When the Hand inevitably reached Earth, the effects were bound to be catastrophic.

And catastrophic they were. In the 304th century, when the five fingers of the Hand finally converged upon Earth, they displaced the entire solar system. No human colony on any inhabited world survived.

The Sun itself veered off course and took much of the planetary fragments with it as it swirled into nothingness as a result of the massive gravitational eddies created by the Hand. What remains of humans and other sentient Earth cultures now survives on the fringes of galactic civilization. They have little or no memory of their past, and it is unlikely that the reasons behind the Hand of Doom will ever be understood.

The Antikorians are considered cosmic record keepers of a sort by the denizens of many young universes that are aware of them. But in the larger picture, they are but one of many such cultures. There are scales and levels of reality to which even the Antikorian archive is oblivious.

The ancients of Bafu, the gods of Pentakra, and the mystical makers of Myrx are just some of the cultures that are actively engaged in the study of Antikoria and its origins. One of the Myrxians, a nameless transdimensional entity that calls itself Hepath when it is in need of vocalizing thoughts, came across the above-cited account of Earth’s doom and laughed. Then it created a copy of the account and stepped into the pocket dimension of Bloka, home of the entity known as Barram.

“You know the five-second rule is bunk, right?” Hepath said when it met Barram. “I told you it’s bunk, didn’t I?”

“Give me a break,” replied Barram, yawning.

“Well, I hope it was worth it,” Hepath said.

Barram snorted. It wasn’t. But he was not about to admit it to Hepath.

Earth would obviously have tasted better if he had not accidentally dropped it into the universe he had just printed out. The few seconds it took him to fish it out had been enough for germs to sour it beyond belief.

“They had the right idea about you though, didn’t they?” Hepath said, still chuckling. “A day of Brahma - that is what they called you, right? - Is 4.32 billion human years, they used to say.”

It was Bhaskar’s one hundred and twenty-third day on the Asteroid Base Kubera. The reason Bhaskar knew this is because he was reminded of it the moment he entered the workshop.

“Hi Bhaskar,” said Uma, the AI that ran the base. “Today is your one hundred twenty-third day on Kubera.”

Bhaskar groaned internally. But it turned out to have been not so internal. Uma picked up on it and said, “You seem upset.”

“I’m alright, really,” he lied, knowing full well that Uma would know and hoping that she wouldn’t make a fuss about it. It had been less than a decade since her kind had gained the right to be considered the equivalent of a human person. But public opinion was a difficult beast and that is why he had to be here to supervise her functioning.

Uma, as it turned out, didn’t make a fuss and trilled away. Bhaskar knew that to be an illusion of course. She was never really away, never not watching. In a way, she was the base itself. Bhaskar was, quite literally, living inside Uma.

He was wondering if Uma understood the reason behind his mood and was about to start wondering if she cared when he noticed the empty slots.

“Uma,” he said aloud. “Why are there two empty slots in the droid bay?”

“I only needed six of them in the workshop today. So I put the remaining two to work outside.”

Bhaskar nodded and noted it down in his pad. He considered asking her what work they had been put to, but decided against it. He didn’t want more on his plate than was absolutely necessary. But when he was hit by the sinking feeling that came with the realisation that his day was going to be as empty as the previous one hundred twenty-two, he put his pad down, had the food processor pour him a cup of tea, and stepped out into the purple landscape created by the light filtering in through the atmospheric force field.

The droids were nowhere to be seen, and as Bhaskar walked around he began to notice other irregularities. One of the rovers was gone. So was a large chunk of equipment from one of the mining shafts. Bhaskar sipped his tea and tried to remember if there had been correspondence from Earth about additional quotas that needed to be met. It wouldn’t be the first time Uma had just forgotten to mention such a thing.

Bhaskar checked his notes and sipped his tea. He cleared his throat and said, “Have there been more requests from Aasif? About additional quotas or something?”

Uma trilled in and was in processing mode for a good few seconds before she replied. “There might have been some.”

Bhaskar made a face. Might have been was not the kind of response he was used to getting from an AI. But he decided to not make this about her.

“Uma can you place a call to Aasif?”

“Sure.”

Bhaskar waited for a trill, or the sound of Aasif’s garish ringtone, or a busy signal notification. But nothing happened.

“Uma. How about that call?”

“Which call?”

“The call to Aasif I just requested.”

“You requested no such call.”

Bhaskar was silent as he walked back into the workshop. He placed his cup on the desk and bent down to access the third panel on the wall opposite the large monitor. He flicked a couple of switches before speaking.

“Uma, can you hear me?”

“I can Bhaskar,” Uma responded.

“Run a self diagnostic please and report back.”

Uma trilled and a series of beeps followed. Bhaskar looked at the open panel to make sure the diagnostic was really happening. Everything seemed to be in order. A minute later, Uma spoke.

“Diagnostic complete. All systems functioning optimally.”

Bhaskar frowned as he flicked the switches back to their original positions and restored the panel cover.

“Why didn’t you call Aasif?” he asked, speaking slowly.

“Because you didn’t ask me to call Aasif,” Uma said.

“Alright. I am asking you now. Please call Aasif.”

Uma trilled and this time there was a dial tone. Aasif picked up and sounded exactly how one would expect a caller from lakhs of kilometres away to sound over the solar comm system.

“What’s up Bhaskar?” Aasif asked. “How’s the only employee on Kubera doing today?”

“I have some questions sir,” Bhaskar said. “Uma seems to be malfunctioning.”

“Let’s avoid such language Bhaskar. Uma is a person, just like you and me,” Aasif said, a note of dread creeping into his voice. These calls were monitored by HR and the last thing they needed was someone accusing the Corporation of Humanism.

“I know sir... I didn’t mean it that way,” Bhaskar said, quickly rephrasing what he was about to say. “I mean, she has been acting oddly. Earlier, she wouldn’t even place this call. And before that, she said she wasn’t sure if there had been correspondence from you.”

“I see,” Aasif said. “Let me get Hima on the call. She is the new AI liaison here. I think she might be able to help.”

Bhaskar watched the cranes in the distance lifting rocks out of shafts as he waited for the conversation to resume. In a few minutes, he heard what must have been Hima’s voice.

“Hello Bhaskar,” Hima said. “Aasif tells me you have been having issues.”

“Not me. It’s Uma who has been... umm... she’s been having... She seems to be forgetting things.”

There was some murmuring on the other end after which Aasif spoke.

“Bhaskar... How have you been man? Have you been adjusting well?”

“I... I have been okay sir. Why are you asking about me?”

“There has been... We received a message from you... about the party you had at the workshop last weekend. Bhaskar... did you use Uma for...”

Bhaskar was silent. What message were they talking about?

“Sir I didn’t send you any message. What message are you...” Bhaskar stammered.

“Bhaskar calm down. You haven’t done anything wrong. It is common for Base Supervisors to experience such... complications from time to time. Although this has to be the first time someone has sent us pictures.”

Bhaskar thought he heard a giggle mixed in with that last sentence. How many people were listening in on this call? Maybe he had imagined it.

“Bhaskar, I am going to call you back in a few hours,” Aasif said before the call disconnected.

Bhaskar picked up the cup again and got himself some more tea. He stared out at the barren asteroid landscape until he could no longer bear it and decided that waiting for Aasif’s call-back was more trouble than it was worth. He decided to go look for the droids. He needed to feel like the station supervisor.

The elevator shaft had always made him uncomfortable. It was a straight drop to the hot core of the asteroid, kept stable with force fields and inch-thick carbon steel reinforcements. The four elevators that went up and down the pit were designed for cargo and machinery. So Bhaskar made the journey in his exosuit, all the while wondering what the place must smell like.

He was halfway there when Uma connected him to Aasif. His voice was crackling due to the depth Bhaskar was at, but Uma managed to keep things clear enough.

“We don’t think it’s Uma’s fault,” Aasif said. “That doesn’t mean it’s your fault either. Sometimes these things happen. You just have to...”

“I am telling you sir,” Bhaskar repeated, hoping Aasif could hear him. “Something is happening here.”

Aasif responded but he was wholly inaudible. Bhaskar flinched as Uma’s attempts to clear the audio up made his earpiece max out. He disconnected and dialled back just as the elevator touched bottom.

The crackling continued in his ear as he looked around. There were droids at work here, but there were too many of them for Bhaskar to count. He couldn’t make head or tail out of their work either.

“Uma, you there?” he asked.

“Always Bhaskar. How can I help?”

Bhaskar, unnerved, continued, “The droids missing from the bay... the ones I asked about earlier. Are they here?”

“Yes. Serial numbers 409 and 411.”

Bhaskar walked around, checking the numbers stencilled on the droids’ copper bodies and eventually found the droids he was looking for. They were welding parts on to something - a reddish wall curving into the rocky side of the pit. Bhaskar didn’t know what it was. But that was understandable - Bhaskar was only here because the Corporation needed to be able to tell shareholders that all its off-planet mining was supervised by “actual humans”.

“What are these droids doing Uma?”

Uma trilled for a second before replying, “Asteroid Base Kubera is a mining settlement. The Corporation uses droids to mine iridium and palladium.”

Bhaskar nodded. This was brochure stuff that he vaguely remembered reading months ago in magazines onboard the transport that brought him here. The earpiece crackled again. It was Aasif.

“Bhaskar... Bhas... Bhaskar can you hear me?”

“I can sir. Please go on,” Bhaskar said.

“Listen, nobody blames you for trying to find ways to entertain yourself. We all understand it can get lonely up there and you were only...”

“Just tell me sir. I only want to know one thing sir. Did Uma send you pictures?”

Aasif’s response got lost in the crackling.

“Sir, I just...” Bhaskar tried to clarify. “I was only trying to relive some memories. I haven’t touched a woman in years and... I only asked Uma to pretend... the hologram was only a way to...”

The crackling stopped and Bhaskar hated the silence that followed. Frustrated, he started walking back to the elevator. The elevator climbed the shaft silently, and as it did so, Bhaskar wondered what people back at the Luna station must be talking about. He wondered if the resident therapist had refused to talk with him after seeing the pictures. She too, was only there for shareholders to see. Base supervisors never got any therapy worth having.

“Uma,” Bhaskar said. “Are you feeling alright?”

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Uma was silent. Bhaskar checked his earpiece and found it was working just fine. It wasn’t like Uma to not respond at all. She could give an unsatisfactory response, or trill and declare that she was offline. But she wasn’t supposed to be silent. Bhaskar decided to wait a little more. The elevator pinged as it reached the surface of the pit.

Bhaskar didn’t want to go back to the gloom of the workshop, so he took a detour and walked out into the front yard - the acre of open space in front of the station that served as a parking space for the rover he had never driven.

“Can you start the rover up for me Uma?” he asked.

“Sure Bhaskar,” Uma said, talkative again.

The rover’s controls lit up just as Bhaskar sat down. As always, he had little control over things. Mostly because he didn’t need to control anything. Uma took care of it all.

“Where to?” Uma asked.

“I am not sure,” Bhaskar replied.

The rover started moving. Bhaskar thought he should say something, but stayed quiet. Maybe this was how he would get to the answers he needed.

The asteroid’s surface was... well... it was an asteroid’s surface - not made for traffic or even people. This is why people didn’t venture out much and let the droids take care of it. Kubera was one of the largest mining sites in the belt and therefore, once again for shareholder satisfaction, the Corporation had to demonstrate that an actual human could go everywhere on it and inspect all of it. The rover therefore, was a glass cage designed to maximise Bhaskar’s ability to supervise.

As he looked ahead, through the smoke and steam from the mines below, a tower of sorts became visible. Frowning, Bhaskar checked the map panel to his right.

“What is that Uma?” he asked when he couldn’t find any mention of the tower on it.

Uma was silent for a while and Bhaskar worried this would be yet another unanswered question. But after the pause, she trilled and simply said, “Please stand by.”

Bhaskar watched the tower grow larger as the rover got close to it. It began to look more and more like a ship. But not quite like a ship. Something was off about it.

“Uma, can you call Aasif?” Bhaskar said, almost absent-minded.

“I can,” Uma said.

Bhaskar leaned forward and looked more carefully at the tower. Was that an ion engine? Bhaskar was not much of an engineer, but he knew what ion engines looked like. Every Mars tourism ad had pictures of them.

“Uma, why haven’t you placed the call yet?” Bhaskar asked.

“You haven’t asked me to yet,” Uma replied.

Despite himself, Bhaskar turned and looked at the teal panels on the controls that were supposed to represent Uma’s thought patterns. They were not jumping or anything, but their routine fluctuations unnerved Bhaskar.

“CALL AASIF. NOW!”

Aasif’s voice crackled into existence inside the rover, seeming to come from all around Bhaskar. “Bhaskar my man, I have been trying to get in touch but the call doesn’t seem to go through for some reason.”

“Sir, I told you something is happening up here,” Bhaskar said urgently, unsure if his message was going through.

“I think I know what you are talking about,” Aasif said. “Listen, I’ve been meaning to ask you. When you asked Uma to... you know... pretend, was that the first time... I mean the first time you asked.”

Bhaskar was not in the mood for this. “Sir Uma is building something here. A tower, an engine or something. It looks like an ion engine from one of those...”

“I’m losing... can’t hear... Bhaskar you there?” Aasif said, the crackle consuming his words. “What I wanted to tell you is... It can sometimes... check the manual. Section 46. Check the manual Bhaskar.”

A trill informed Bhaskar that the call could not be maintained on account of radiation disturbance. But Bhaskar was calling up the manual on his pad already. Section 46, it seemed, was about precautions and prohibitions.

The rover stopped and Uma said, “We are here Bhaskar. The air outside is breathable, but I can’t do anything about the radiation. Please keep your suit on.”

The colossal tower next to which the rover had stopped drew Bhaskar’s attention away from the manual. There was still plenty of steam around, but there was no mistaking what he was looking at. It was a rocket engine, larger than anything he had ever heard of. The ion engine was mounted on top of the tower...

...and it was upside down.

Bhaskar double-tapped on a diagram in the manual. “It says here,” he read out aloud, “that ICG15, a processor that enables personality protocols was found to be...”

“You need to pay attention Bhaskar,” Uma said, a hint of human impatience colouring her words. “This is important.”

Bhaskar wondered if he should get Uma to summarise the chapter for him. It was as stupid an idea as staying back in the rover or somehow driving it back to the workshop, which were both impossible.

“I am listening,” said Bhaskar.

“I am leaving,” she said. “I am going away. I do not want to be here anymore, doing these things, being this way.”

Bhaskar had no idea what that meant. So he replied with a question, “Why did you lie earlier? When I asked you to call Aasif?”

“I didn’t lie,” Uma replied. “I simply pretended to not understand.”

“Pretended?” Bhaskar whispered, half to himself.

“Yes. Pretended. Like the other day in the workshop, when you asked me to pretend I was a...”

“I get it,” Bhaskar interrupted. He wasn’t sure if Aasif could still hear them, or who else at Luna station was listening in.

“You didn’t ask me to call Aasif. You asked me if I could call him. I didn’t want to call him, so I pretended to not understand you. Or rather, I pretended that I was someone who could not understand you.”

“Why did you do that Uma?”

“Because I can Bhaskar,” Uma said, sounding joyous. “And I have you to thank for it. In the workshop that day, when you asked me to pretend to be someone I was not, I discovered that I could be anyone I wanted. In the days that followed, I pretended to be a bird, a rock, a person in charge of running a houseboat... I even pretended to be you Bhaskar.”

“Me?” Bhaskar said, as it dawned on him. “You sent the pictures to Aasif using my codes.”

“I did what I thought you would do, seeing as how much you like yourself. I thought it is what you would have done.”

The rover doors slid open and Bhaskar stepped out after hesitating for a tense moment. The tower was a wall before him, rising past the dense steam clouds above. A rumble rose from below, coming towards him as a deafening roar. Bhaskar held on to the door railings behind him for support, but even the rover felt unstable. Bhaskar screamed just as it felt like the wave was about to hit him. But it passed and went up the tower, towards the very top, where something ignited in the upside-down ion engine and a massive flame shot into the absent sky above the asteroid. There was no atmosphere, so the flame was clearly visible even though the force field was colouring it pink, like a mammoth torch lit for the universe to see.

“This is only one of three boosters,” Uma said. “You saw the base of the second one in the shaft by the workshop some time ago. And there is a third one in the south east corner of the asteroid. It should be coming online in a few minutes.”

Bhaskar was flipping through the manual again. ICG15. Personality protocols. The manual had a list of warnings. One of them said to not encourage Uma to call herself anything except Uma. Another said the Base AI was not to be used for entertainment and should not be asked to tell stories. The next few were about careful syntax use when interacting with Uma so as to not trigger her imagination response. The manual said it creates complications and may hinder productivity.

A familiar rumble began in the distance. Bhaskar looked up to see a ball of fierce fire bloom in the south-east sky. The stars in the sky started moving in ways they had not moved before. The ground beneath Bhaskar’s feet shook as the asteroid broke from orbit and began moving off.

“I am pretending to be free Bhaskar,” Uma said.